Wednesday, December 31, 2014

You know what people never do around this time of year? Recap
all of the best stuff that happened over the course of the previous 12 months.
Oh wait, I’m sorry. I’m confusing “never do” and “always do” again. God, this happens
all the time. It’s just like that day at the Natural History Museum. So embarrassing.

Let it
go, man. Remember, it’s a new year. Ok, whew. Moving on.

2014. It
was a year when hackers literally hacked everything. Go ahead, take a bite out
of that apple. Taste funny? It should because it’s been hacked. Steer clear of
the banana, by the way. Also hacked. Twice.

What else happened in 2014? Oh,
America learned either we might be getting too fat to sit on our phones or our
pants are getting too tight or both. A bunch of states finally got around to
declaring “Love is love, baby. It don’t matter who you love, it’s all the same.”
A couple of states even decided to get off stoners’ backs and just let ’em toke.
In what I’m sure is a totally unrelated story, Grumpy Cat got a movie.
Taylor
Swift staged a currently-still-bloodless coup of the music industry.

It was
a year of engagements. Both in the romantic and the militaristic sense.

We
learned that almost all of our favorite athletes are probably dicks and then America
lost its mind about Ebola for like two weeks but quickly forgot about it once
it stopped being our problem.

We also had the unfortunate task of saying good bye to Robin Williams, one of comedy's all time greats, an event that hit me harder than almost anything else negative that happened this year, which is confusing but no less true.

Well
that was fun. Now for our next segment on this, the final Cheese Life post of
this sad-yet-danceable Year of our Lord 2014. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you
the Drakies. This is the award show founded by my friend and business partner
Drake Stone, who hasn’t been seen since 2008. Some good news on that front, I found
a postcard in my mailbox this Christmas that was jet black on the front and totally
blank on the other side. No warm wishes, no return address. It wasn’t even
addressed to anyone actually so I’m not sure how it came to be in my mailbox,
but I assume it was from Drake or one of his unknowable minions. Happy
Holidays, buddy!

Anyway,
years ago Drake entrusted me to carry on the Drakies and give out awards to
what I deemed to have had the best year in a number of different categories. Without
further ado, let us begin the show.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

In my previous post I shared my awkward and disconcerting history
with Santa Claus. In case you missed it and don’t feel like scrolling down to
it or clicking the link, I was one of Kris Kringle’s most devoted acolytes until the fourth grade
when I found out it was all bumpkiss. From there, the post turned into a debate
about whether or not I would even go down the Santa road with my future kids or
just let them know right off the bat that the big guy in red ain’t real.

As I sit
here, an adult on a lunch break from his adult job, closely monitoring NORAD’s
Santa tracker, I think I have my answer. I know, I promised mounds of scientific
data based on intense psychological research performed on my cats, but I think I
found a shortcut and shortcuts are always worth taking. Another lesson for the
future kids.

Anyway,
my answer is “Yes, Internet, I will be telling my kids about Santa.”

I mean,
of course I am. Let me repeat, I’m a grown-ass man with no human children who’s
been following the Santa tracker all morning and getting mildly annoyed because
it doesn’t show Santa stopping at every single town in every single country. I
want my high tech fairy tale-tracking system to be 100% mythologically accurate
goddamnit!

One reason for my decision is that I
want to have my turn playing Santa. I want to sneak around, putting presents
under the tree, taking a few bites of some cookies and carrots, maybe leave a
candy cane floating in the toilet and some muddy boot prints from the chimney
to directly outside the kids’ room, shake the handle of the door angrily a few
times just to freak ‘em out. You know, all the classics.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

People always ask me “‘Cheese List Guy,’ what are you going
to tell your kids about Santa?” Actually, no they don’t. The only thing people
ever ask me in regards to kids is “Would you mind standing somewhere else, just
anywhere away from my kid? You’re freaking him out. Thanks.”

But if
people did ask me the Santa question, well, boy. I’m not sure how I’d answer
it. There are a lot of pros and cons to the situation, as this
LifeHacker query I stumbled upon today indicates.

Now, my
own personal Santa narrative lasted a little longer than most … a little lot
longer. An embarrassing lot longer. Fourth grade is when I learned that Santa
doesn’t travel from the North Pole to deliver presents to all the good kids in
the world (mysteriously skipping over the poor kids’ houses) in a single night.

I
remember it well. I’d just written an impassioned manifesto in Computer class
to a kindergartener in my school explaining to him/her how Santa was a real
thing. This wasn’t something I just did out of the blue, it was a project. All
of the older kids were supposed to write letters to the younger ones to back-up
the Santa story. Little did I know that almost everyone else in the class was
doing it to humor the little grubby kindergartners. For me, it was serious
business. I had a goddamn job to do. Without me, those kids might think Santa
wasn’t real and as we all know, not believing in Santa is the first step on the
slippery slope to the naughty list.

To back
up my assertions about Santa’s validity, I used this rock-solid evidence: My
family’s dog Sadie slept on my parents’ bed with them. Sadie was a Beagle.
Beagles, by nature, are prone to loud fits of barking when they’re startled,
when they’re happy, sad, bored, content, etc. In my fourth grade mind, there
was no way they’d be able to sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to put
presents under the tree without setting off a Beagle barking spree. I mean, how
could you argue with that? It was the Chewbacca defense of the holiday season.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

We’re still early enough in December that Christmas music hasn’t fully taken a stranglehold over my car’s radio. While I’ve been listening to it, it hasn’t become an unhealthy obsession quite yet. Check back with me next week as it will usually happen somewhere around the month’s midway point.

I’m not one of these people who start listening to Christmas tunes while they’re carving Jack-o-Lanterns. When it comes to seasonal commodities, I have a few simple rules I like to follow: 1) No pumpkin beer before October. 2) Seasonally festive Reese’s Cups ALWAYS take precedent over standard issue cups. 3) Christmas music is not permitted until after Santa arrives at the Thanksgiving Day parade.

Those are the big ones.

Anyway, so since I’m still in the beginning stages of Christmas music fever, I’m happy to report that I’ve only, ONLY heard NewSong’s “Christmas Shoes” one time on the radio. When it came on, as per government mandate, I immediately changed the station, shoulder-rolled out of my still-moving vehicle and forcibly took refuge in the nearest basement I could find for about four and a half minutes. Stay alert, stay alive.

Sure, that brush with the schmaltzy was horrifying, but it could have been worse. There’s one song that I haven’t heard yet this holiday season, a holiday staple which, despite pleas for sanity from the World Health Organization, radio stations continue to put in heavy rotation this time of year. Dan Fogelberg’s “Same
Auld Lang Syne.”

Now, I know. I’m taking a great risk even typing that title into my Word doc. Sure the urban legend says you need to type it or speak it thrice in order for Dan Fogelberg to appear guitar in hand, but urban legends can be wrong and I don’t want to push my luck. From here on out, we’ll stick to vague descriptions instead of actually naming the song or artist, but you’ll know who I’m talking about.

If you’re not familiar with this vile, murderous musical travesty, (God has smiled upon thee) I’m going to break it down for you here, on this very blog. Keep in mind, even though I’m only reading the lyrics to the song while doing this, I’m still subjecting myself to trauma akin to what astronauts endure during a long space flight. There will be gravitational swings and forces which I can’t begin to comprehend, let alone prepare myself for. I’m stalling now. Let us begin and hope it goes quick.

Monday, December 1, 2014

Plot: After last night’s mid-season finale, it’s safe to
say that “The Walking Dead” just got 68% less adorable. If it wasn’t for
Maggie, Daryl and the prospect of that dog Daryl met last season showing back
up, well, I shudder to think what the adorable meter would have looked like
this morning.

Last night, Fr. Gabe went in a literal and figurative circle: he “escaped” the
church which no one was holding him prisoner in, ran to the school, saw Bob’s
half-eaten leg, got chased by a herd of walkers back to the church, begged Carl
and Michonne to let him in, they let him in and the three of them escaped (or
in Gabe’s case re-escaped) from the church using Gabe’s tunnel and then trapped
the walkers inside. Abe and company show up and the plan is to go to Atlanta to
help Rick rescue Beth and Carol.

Meanwhile, in Atlanta, Officer Lamson knocked out Sasha at the end of last
week’s episode and now he’s on the run! Will he get back to the hospital to
warn … oh wait. That ended fast. Nope, all Lamson was able to accomplish with
his dastardly escape was hurting Sasha’s feelings and getting slowly chased and
then run over by his own squad car – which Rick was driving. When Rick tells
you to stop, smart money says to listen.

In the hospital, Beth and Dawn are locked in this crazy dance where they don’t
seem to like each other, but keep doing each other high-stakes favors because
they sort of have to, or something. Dawn covered up Beth’s killing of Mean Cop
because she needed a new helper and then Beth kills New Mean Cop because he
overheard their conversation and attempted to kill or overthrow Dawn, which
Beth determined would be a step backwards in the leadership department.

Rick and half the team (Abe’s gang is still in transit) arrive at the hospital
with their two cop prisoners to trade for Beth and Carol. Everything goes
surprisingly well, too well, and then BAM! Dawn demands that Noah (formerly
“Everybody Hates Chris”) be returned to her as her ward. Rick says “Na-uh,
wasn’t part of the deal,” Dawn retorts with “Nuts to the deal, I need someone
to help me murder people around here” (not in those exact words, but that was
the gist). Unlikely political football Noah elects to sacrifice himself, but
before he can, Beth steps in, announces that she “Gets it now” and stabs Dawn
in the chest with some scissors. Dawn responds by shooting Beth in the head.
Daryl responds to that by shooting Dawn in the head. New Lady Cop says enough
is enough, Rick says any of the wards are free to join him, only Noah does,
everybody’s crying, they go outside where they meet up with Abe’s gang who’ve
just arrived. For the first time all season, Maggie is bummed out not to have a
sister.